The Innocents
Page 29
“I feel like your father’s still very much around.”
“Mom, that’s creepy. Dad’s dead. Gone. Finis.”
Which would get him the mom-stare. Usually, it got him an additional: “Why are you so angry, Jimmy? Your father didn’t choose to die.”
That’s where she’d lose Jimmy. He’d walk out the slider, close it behind him, and fire up a big doobie. Then, usually, Jimmy would hear the glass door move on its rollers and a conversation would ensue like:
“Jimmy, I’d rather you did that in your bedroom than out here.” “Why’s that, Mom?” “Someone might call the police.” “For smoking a joint?” “You don’t know my neighbors.”
Yeah, Jimmy did know her neighbors. He thought.
***
Similar and recurring episode number whatever, Mom closed the slider; Jimmy relaxed into the metal chair, as much as anyone can relax into a metal chair, and watched the sun bounce off the ocean. He’d nabbed an ounce of Jamaican collie, pulled out the few buds one actually got in those days of leaf-and-stem marijuana merchandising. Rolled the seeds out on a Stones’ album cover—Beggars’ Banquet—twisted a joint, a big fat-bellied number that looked like a guppy. He took a good healthy pull, exhaled into the muggy morning.
A few tokes into the doob a voice in the hedge separating the patios said: “You don’t bring that over here and share it, I’ll be the one calls the cops on you.”
Jimmy looked up mid-toke. He blew smoke out silently.
“Kid, I know you can hear me. I can hear you moving around over there. Want I should call the cops?”
Jimmy grinned, puffed the joint back to life. “No, not really.”
He got up, carried the guppy joint around the hedge. Finally unbored, grinning about it.
Around the hedge was a mirror image of his mom’s place. A cast-iron patio set distantly related to his mom’s was scattered loosely here and there where hers sat at ordered ready—Mom’s chairs tucked in neatly, her sandbag ashtrays clean.
A couple of cushioned wicker chairs were at this table. The plastic cushions were a tangle of jungle-life and not too un¬tacky. The sun wasn’t being any more kind to the chairs than anything else in Florida—they were becoming pale versions of the original.
In one of the chairs a man sat, elbows on the enameled tin top of the table. He could have been fifty or seventy. Jimmy couldn’t tell.
He looked like he’d been around but his crisp blue eyes went ageless on you. He was in good shape; strong legs coming from big Bermuda shorts; tan, strong arms coming from one of those four pocket Cuban shirts, this one pale blue. High cheekbones, well-drawn snoz, a smiling mouth with thin lips—the smile telling you nothing.
A pork-pie hat, one of the cheap ones you could get at the straw market in the Bahamas, sat high on his head. The hair, what the hat left for display, was fine and gray and cropped close to the guy’s head.
On the table lay a newspaper, a large sandbag ashtray with a plaid base. A big green cigar as long as an arm smoldered in the ashtray. Two well-rolled joints lay beside another unburned cigar.
Jimmy babied the joint, passed it to the pork-pie hat. The hat knew what to do with it, did it. Puffed the cigar to life and blew the smoke after the reefer cloud.
“You need to learn to smoke cigars, kid.” The guy nibbled at the joint again, chased it with cigar smoke. Passed it back to Jimmy.
Jimmy took his turn; his eyes drifting to the two hand-mades on the table.
“You roll your own cigarettes?”
“Not usually.” The guy was enjoying this. Maybe he was more bored than Jimmy was.
Jimmy nodded, passed the joint back. “That reefer?” A point to the joints.
“Yeah.” The guy worked the doob, readjusted his pinch on it, toked, passed. Exhale, then, “Joe Joseph.” No attempted handshake.
“Jimmy Cotton.”
“Yours smelled better’n mine.”
“What?”
“Your herb. Smells better’n mine. You were wondering why I got two reefers laying here but I still call you over—yours smells better.”
Jimmy inspected the joint-now-roach, took a last puff, lips dainty and fretful that close to the ember. Dropped the roach in the ashtray, said, “It’s bud. All bud,” through tight lips holding onto that last toke.
Joseph nodded. “You know, you use a little leaf, a little bud, you’re smoking decent shit longer?”
Jimmy shrugged. “How come I never smelled you over here burning one? The cigar?” Jimmy recalled sometimes smelling cigar smoke in the mornings.
“Yeah. And I smoke when you do. Anybody matters snoops around, takes a whiff, there your young ass is, I’m home free.” The grin.
Jimmy gave him back one, spiced it with a little head wag. “So my moving in was a lucky break for you.”
Joseph shrugged out some dunno. “We’ll see, kid.” He picked up a joint from the table, inspected it, used a gold Zippo one handed to fire it off.
Joseph’s nose wrinkled. “Tastes like shit after your tops.”
It wasn’t as pungent as the select stuff Jimmy brought to the party, but it was righteous. They shared it silently, Joe Joseph pouring Cuban tobacco smoke after the reefer smoke.
The new joint went brown then died. It was discarded next to the earlier version of Jimmy’s; Joseph said, “What you doing with your life besides bugging your mom?”
Jimmy shrugged.
“You dumping school for good?”
Jimmy looked at Joseph. “You put a glass to the wall, listen in?”
Joseph grinned, jerked a thumb. “Thin hedges, big ears. What can I say?”
Jimmy got okay, shrugged out, “Right now, yeah.”
That floated around. The dependable wind off the Atlantic didn’t want it. Nothing wanted it.
“Everybody’s gotta have something they do, baby.”
“My something got kinda screwed up. I was gonna get my degree, move to Africa, save the world.”
More silence.
“So what happened, kid?”
Jimmy figured Joseph knew already, but tossed out one more shrug, said, “Africa’s going to hell.”
“And you’re not sure the rest of the world ain’t right behind it. Right?”
“Right on.”
Quiet.
“How’d that shit up at Kent State make you feel?”
Jimmy’s funny eyebrows got: “Your mom’s prouder of you than you think. She talks about you.”
Funny—Jimmy had never heard any mention of his mom knowing this guy
And no one else had asked how it felt. “A kid not four feet away took one in the head. It sounded like you slapped a pumpkin with a baseball bat. The kid fell over and blood spurted out like nothing I’d ever seen, like a water fountain or something.” Saying it out loud felt funny, maybe felt good.
“What were you thinking? At the time?”
Another odd question.
“I was glad as hell I wasn’t standing four feet in his direction.”
This seemed to satisfy Joseph on the subject.
“You retired, Mr. Joseph?”
“It’s Joe, and sorta kinda.” No more to add.
“What was your something, Joe? When you weren’t kinda sorta retired.”
Joseph had the blue eyes pointed at the sea, but Jimmy didn’t think he was seeing it.
“Different shit, kid. Mostly I found people who got stolen.”
“You were a cop?” A grin and the tone to say Jimmy didn’t believe it.
“No. Well—yeah, a long time ago. Forty years ago.”
Jimmy didn’t know where to go with that.
Joseph said: “That whole school up there, there was nothing interested you? I mean besides booze and pussy?”
Jimmy grinned. The old guy was a trip. “Declared journalism this year.”
“You gonna pursue it?”
The shrug. “Whadda I got to write about? I’m twenty-one years old, live off my mom. I’d just be another dumb soun
ding hack. Another vicarious tough-guy doesn’t know what the shit he’s taking about.”
“Never stopped Hemingway.”
“Nor Steinbeck either.”
Swapped grins.
“Tell you what, kid, lemme think about something. Maybe I got a story or two you could use. You want a little something to get you on beyond vicarious—” a head bobble, “—maybe I got something could get you there.”
[4]
Jimmy left all smiles. He’d cruised through some of his mom’s drinkie-poo parties, heard the old wrinkle-sacks bullshitting the ladies. They were worse than junior high kids, the lives and lies they built from rarefied air. This guy was more of the same— full of shit.
Yeah, he had an extra spark, but still: interesting people don’t live in West Palm Beach. The guy must have been a hell of a salesman at one time.
***
A few days, Jimmy had all but forgotten the meet. Through the hedge: “Hey, kid, you over there?”
“Yeah.”
“Whatcha burning? The garbage?”
Jimmy had scored a matchbox of some pretty nasty reefer. It smelled like fish but tasted more like chicken shit when you scorched it. He’d be smoking better but the fifty bucks his mom had fronted him was thinning.
“You got better?”
“You know I do.”
Jimmy went over and Joe proved it.
“Where you get stuff like this?”
Joe looked at the perfect joint like the country of origin could be written on the wrapper. “A guy I know up the asphalt a ways.” Joe adjusted the hat of the day, a flat crowned straw so frail the wind would bend the wide brim occasionally.
“Where?”
“Savannah.”
“What’s in Savannah?”
Joe killed the roach against the aluminum side of the ashtray, hit the stogie a couple of deep ones. “Shipyards.” A glance, a puff. “You don’t know shit, do you, kid?”
Jimmy could feel the blood gushing up his neck, his ears popping. He caught the anger. Credited it to residuals from last night.
He’d scored four Mexican Quaaludes at the park yesterday. Mexican ’ludes being cheap imitations of Rohrers—worn-out presses with blurred stampings. Half the kick of the original version, but four of them and a bottle of Annie Greensprings would knock the right angles off a Mondrian. “No. I don’t know shit.”
“That what makes you so mad? Not knowing shit? Don’t know what to do with your life. Don’t know where to cop decent reefer. Didn’t even know where your mom’s condo was last night for a few minutes. What do you know, Jimmy Cotton?”
“I know just because my old man’s dead, I don’t necessarily need a new daddy figure. But, hey, man, thanks for the offer. I need advice, I’ll know where to come.”
Jimmy was standing, shoving the wicker chair back; Joe was saying: “Sit the fuck down—stop acting silly.”
Joe’s eyes went pale. He didn’t look old. He looked like he’d kick your ass. Jimmy sat.
Joe composed himself. The smile didn’t return; the eyes stayed pale. “No offer was being made. I ain’t looking for a kid to raise. You stumble around, acting like a dumb ass, embarrassing your mom in fronta her peers. Hanging out at that fucking park with the other riff-raff hangs out there. Fuck, kiddo, no wonder nobody feels sorry for you. You get in their way doing it yourself. I point out how you’re being stupid and you get all red about it. Makes me think you ain’t so happy about it.” Pause. “How am I doing?”
Silence, then: “Pretty good.” Silence, then: “My mom’s embarrassed?”
“Yeah. In an amused, kids-these-days sorta way. I didn’t say she was ashamed of you, which is what you’re thinking. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah. Sure there is.”
Joe laughed. “Boo-fucking-hoo. Whadda you expect? You cutting up like you are, she’s gonna be proud?”
Jimmy made a sound like a moan. Or a groan. His head wobbled in a few wide, erratic arcs. “You’re a trip, old man.”
“Yeah? And what’s Jimmy Cotton?”
“Nobody knows.”
The eyes were sparkling again. “Time somebody found out. You wanna hear some stories?”
Jimmy shrugged. Why not? “Sure. What kinda stories we listening to?”
“I’ll start you off on one you heard some about. I got the skinny though, baby.”
[5]
George Kelly—or Barnes, whichever you prefer—had horrible sinuses. Allergies so bad his wife Kathryn couldn’t wear even the mildest cologne.
Shame, too. A woman as good looking as Kathryn Kelly should have smelled like Paris. She damn sure looked like Paris.
I’d met them both, George and Kathryn, at a poker table in Kansas City. Was looking for someone else at the time and was impressed by neither the man nor the novelty surrounding him. The woman I was.
Could have bedded her, I guess.
George was making goo-goo at the chippie I was using for cover, Kathryn steaming. She bailed the poker game and went out on the hotel’s balcony.
I took a stretch and a piss, ambled out to mess up the night’s air with a ready-roll. Kathryn was still out there, still fuming.
She had a few choice items to unload about the quality of my companion. I told her I couldn’t agree more—I was a private dick outta LA doing some snooping, needed a foil. The chippie I’d hired was what a sawbuck got you in KC.
I got a Betty Grable, then a Bette Davis.
“Not after me and Machine Gun I hope.”
“No, dear. I’d not have told you anything if I was. I’da had you. I’m chasing a kike name a Pearlie Friedman. Know him?” “What’s it worth?”
I shrugged. “The man who wants him wants him so bad he’s leaking dollar signs.”
She laughed. “I’ve seen him around some, but we don’t mix with that crowd much.”
“Who do you mix with, sweetheart?” Got the laugh. It wasn’t a bad laugh.
She told me I wasn’t hard to look at, drifted inside, giving me the coy smile, doing Grable again before she disappeared.
Before I stubbed the butt, Kelly wandered out, led by a cigar barely bigger than a dachshund.
The paperboys had him tough. I had him soft—a doughboy. Decent size on him but lacking the essential for a bonafide red hot—the eyes. Kathryn had those.
Kelly said, “You play decent poker, buddy, damn decent. You outta Nevada?”
“No, baby, I’m no pro. Outta LA. Do it as a hobby when I got the roll to bank it.”
“I hear you. Hey, your girl, Luanna? You lookin’ to marry ’er?”
I laughed, pulled another Benson and Hedges from my breast pocket, lit it with the first. “I’m just passing through, baby. She’s not. You hear me?” This was going to the interesting side.
“I hear. Listen, you seen my old lady. She looks all right.”
“Yeah, she looks just fine.” Like a double-scoop ice-cream cone looks all right in August.
“You wanna trade out for the night?”
I didn’t take it well. I’m sure it showed.
All I had was: “You serious?”
He was serious.
I told him lemme think about it.
I had already thought about it. I thought I’d just as soon sleep with Lizzi Borden as Kathryn Kelly.
That was then.
[6]
Acouple of years later I’m tethering a hot Auburn and an adjusted agenda at the curb outside a club called Many Ha¬Ha’s in Memphis. I’d picked up the Auburn at a dinge juke joint two-three cuts off Beale.
An old friend of mine named Johnny Chaplain had rounded it up for me. Johnny also rounded up something else—street talk.
Word on the street was somebody needed a fast ride quick. Johnny said this certain party was hanging around this white juke club, Many Ha-Ha’s. But the party was offering two for one on bills that needed some time to age and no one had taken them up on the barter. Ransom dough can be red hot for years—no takers in Memphis.
Many Ha-Ha’s didn’t live up. Square joint, no style, no ha-has. Tables and chairs from a home cooking place. Primitive bar. Plumbing pipe for a foot rail. If the dive had been painted since Lincoln’s inaugural, it fooled me. Plain wood floor. Spittoons. All but the chickens, baby, and the end of Prohibition was still young.
I eased up to the bar, tossed a buck down, leaned against the rail being careful about splinters.
“Whatever’s coldest.”
A moke, door height, made of sticks slid up. He’d wasted some Lucky Tiger on the hair.
“All the same, partner.”
“For a buck you could surprise me.”
“Sure, mister.”
Long tall shoved off, went down a hall off the bar.
Not long, he wobbled back, popped the cap on a tall brown bottle. I didn’t recognize the brand but I did recognize ice cold.
The barkeep put a finger to his lips. “There’s only so much ice for a nickel beer.”
I saluted him; he tossed a towel down.
Low: “Keep it wiped down, okey?”
I told him sure; enjoyed my dollar beer.
Why not? I was on a rich man’s expense account and the rich man didn’t care shit about his two hundred great ones in ransom. Screw money. This guy wanted pounds of flesh from people’s asses. Trust me on this: odd behavior for a rich man.
The gent’s name was Charles F. Urschel. I didn’t know what the F was hiding but I had a clue. Urschel had the opportunity to spend a few days with some of George and Kathryn’s kinfolk down in Texas. Only Kelly and his running buddy Al Bates used Thompson .45’s as an invitation. Then charged this Urschel fellow two hundred gees for the lodging.